Baildon Moor - Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Bradford, November/December 2013

Sydenham Poyntz went back on tour as soon as the album was recorded and mixed: a surprise German number one hit single meant that Sullivan and the band were still hot property. I didn’t try to get in touch again; he and I had said everything we were ever likely to.

The police search of the moor continued and they found more bones - vertebrae and ribs, arm bones and the rest of the skull - scattered in an old open-cast mine working. Following this discovery, the facts came out in dribs and drabs over the next few weeks.: I read in the paper that the remains were years old and the front of the skull over the right eye had a depressed fracture that would have instantly killed the victim by driving bone fragments into the brain. The paper also noted that from the distribution of the bones it was likely that they had been picked up and scattered by animals.

I wondered about fractured skull – my memory must have played tricks on me because whenever I thought about what happened at the farmhouse I was sure that it was the back of Rudy’s head that hit the Aga, not the front but I let that lie  - it wasn’t surprising if  my recall of that night was less than perfect.

What did surprise me was that Rudy’s family didn’t come forward to claim the body. Perhaps they were waiting for formal identification - or perhaps they were in denial that the body could be his – but whatever the reason, I knew right enough who the body was and that was all that mattered.

I realised Sullivan was right. I’d wasted my twenties and thirties brooding, worrying about something that never happened; always waiting to meet trouble halfway. After the skeleton had been found and the tentative suggestion that the cause of death was an accident it was as if thick curtains had finally been opened and let the sunshine back into my life. I felt positively light-headed at the thought I might have a future. I’d been set free, and it felt marvellous.

Esme commented once or twice that I seemed in a very good mood – bless her, she thought I’d got myself a boyfriend. But the euphoria only lasted a week: once more it was something in the Telegraph & Argus that brought me back down to earth with a crash.

I had picked a copy up on my way to work one morning and flipped through it early before Esme arrived, only to find that Marie had surfaced from somewhere. Whether she’d been unearthed by an unscrupulous freelance journalist with some inside knowledge or whether she had voluntarily sold her story to the local paper for a few quid, I couldn’t tell. Whatever the reason, she’d tried to do a hatchet job on Sullivan, Billy and me - the only saving grace was that she’d got my name wrong and I was referred to as Joanne throughout the article, although anyone who knew us would have had no problem identifying me.

‘Sex and Drugs Shame of Rock Star’s Tragic Brother,’ the headline screamed. ‘Orgy at Secluded Farmhouse,’ howled the by-line. According to the article, on the night of Rudy’s disappearance Marie had been plied with drink and drugs by Sullivan and his junkie girlfriend until she passed out and then she woken up to find someone had assaulted her and stripped her naked. (I’d only removed her jeans because they were covered in vomit). Billy had had sex with her on many occasions knowing full well that she was underage (a fair point) and he was now locked in a secure psychiatric unit following a violent, drug-induced mental breakdown. Rudy had also plied her with drugs on several occasions.

She looked a ruin in the accompanying picture. The photographer had tried to do his or her best – she was carefully lit in such a way that her face had a shimmering halo, which gave her a beatific, Victorian quality - but no amount of Photoshop could disguise the fact that at thirty-five she looked like a bad fifty with a puffy face and dull ratty eyes. The cheaply dyed red hair, leopard-print leisurewear and oversized gold earrings added to the overall effect; she looked and sounded pathetic, a deluded fantasist. 

I seethed with anger and wondered about her timing. How much did Marie really remember from that night? Had she seen us take the body to the car? Why wait until now to sell her story – was it just coincidence or were her motives more sinister?

Esme arrived for work as I simmered and brooded.

‘Morning Ju. What’s up? You’re looking a bit peaky again.’

I sat her down and made her read the article from beginning to end, and then I explained everything - almost everything - to her: all about Sullivan and me, Billy and Rudy, the abortion…it took nearly an hour and we were both in tears by the time I finished.

‘Oh my god Ju, I can’t believe you never told me.’

I shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago – half a lifetime or more. It’s ancient history now. Or it was, at any rate.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Do? I hope that Sullivan gets his lawyers onto the paper, for a start.’

‘But she called you a junkie and…’

I leaned back in my chair. ‘I need a holiday,’ I said. ‘I need to get away from this place for a bit.’

Esme looked crestfallen. ‘What, away from the Yellow Room?’

‘No, Bradford. It’s a very small place sometimes and this…’ I picked up the paper and waved it ‘…will make it even smaller.’

The idea gradually came together that afternoon - it was the Monday before Christmas and the shop was quiet: we only had two customers all day.

Esme and I agreed that she would take over the day to day running of the shop whilst I was away – she needed a little persuading but eventually she came around to my point of view. She even offered to take in Marwood, which was a blessing in itself. I offered to pay her for his food and vet bills, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

The more I thought about it the more I realised it wasn’t a holiday I needed; it was a move away from Bradford and a completely new start somewhere else. Of course I couldn’t tell Esme that because she’d beg me to stay –and I knew I would relent – but she was more than capable of running the shop on her own and would likely do a better job than me: the business had stagnated the past year or so and although we made enough money there was so much more potential.

She made a point of putting the paper in the bin. ‘Where it belonged,’ she’d said, and I couldn’t argue with that.

That night I drove out to Baildon. I wanted to find closure and by seeing the old farmhouse one last time I thought I might achieve it. It felt strange, driving along the road towards the moors; it was almost as though what we’d done had happened to someone else. The moors unfolded in a patchwork of green and grey beneath the road and I nearly missed the turning to the farmhouse; it was a metalled road now, rather than the track it had been the last time I had come this way. I was startled to find that the farmhouse had been demolished and replaced with a cluster of identical brick-box rabbit-hutch houses. I pulled into the neat cul-de-sac, got out the car and surveyed the landscape. It looked totally unfamiliar and I felt disorientated and for a minute it was as if I’d dreamed the whole tragic thing.

The next few days were spent putting my plan into place. I’d booked a one way ticket to New Zealand and told Esme I’d be back in early February. The cottage had been cleaned from top to bottom and I’d had a huge clearout and taken endless bin bags of clothes and possessions to the local charity shop: I’d rented the cottage out to a nice young professional couple relocating from Leeds. Marwood had been safely delivered to Esme’s flat and he had swiftly installed himself on her sofa as if it was the most natural thing in the world: I felt a pang of jealously at how quickly he had made himself at home.

By the time the fag end of the year came around – those dead days in between Christmas and New Year – I was on a British Airways flight to Auckland. After take-off I ordered a glass of wine from the steward and sipped it as we cruised at thirty thousand feet over Europe. A tingle of anticipation ran up my spine as a chapter of my life closed for ever.

I had never felt freer.